


Tell me, my love, how many stories we find us in

by The_Black_Cat



Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Abimel, Debating, F/F, Idiots in Love, Literature, OverWitch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:56:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27636473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Black_Cat/pseuds/The_Black_Cat
Summary: They continued like that for two months. They’d meet for a few moments, exchange books, talk a little about what interested them, then they’d go their separate ways. They often texted when reading. Sometimes, Mel would text to point out an error in a potion or recount her own experience with a spell, other times Abigael would text her about how she agreed or disagreed with either Mel’s notes or the author. They slowly went from spellbooks and literary classics to lesser-known books, stories they enjoyed for the sake of enjoyment and talked about those.ORMel and Abigael talk about books and fall for each other a little because of it.
Relationships: Abigael Jameson-Caine/Mel Vera
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	Tell me, my love, how many stories we find us in

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there!
> 
> I've made it a tradition for me to post a story every year on my birthday, so here it is! I'm honestly not sure how I feel about it. I loved the idea of them talking through books ever since Abigael lent Mel the potion book in the show and I just now got to it. It was fun to write and imagining Mel and Abigael engaging in difficult, intellectual conversations and literary analyses is a headcanon of mine, but I'm not sure I did it justice. 
> 
> Just a little warning, I'm not a native English speaker and I did just finish writing it earlier today, so I didn't have the time to proofread it. I'm sorry for any mistakes you'll find.
> 
> Either way, it's here and it's (subtly) queer, so enjoy!

The first time Abigael lent Mel a book was... charged. They weren’t friendly, exactly, and they were in the middle of saving Harry’s life. Plus, the book was of an enormous emotional value to Abigael so lending it out to someone she didn’t even consider a friend was difficult. 

Mel was hyper-aware of that. She was careful when handling the book, only touching it with the tips of her fingers, only laying it on solid, clean surfaces. She even forwent her habit of drinking coffee while reading for the fear of leaving stains on the parchment. When she held that book in her hands, when she studied the inscription Francesca Jameson had left for her daughter, it felt like she was cradling a tiny, fluttering part of Abigael’s soul in her palms. 

That feeling scared her and thrilled her at the same time. 

She finished the book in one sitting. She read through it a few more times, making mental and actual notes of the spells and potions and advice written there. 

She went to return the book only four days after she got it. She brought it like she was bearing a white flag or a gift to Abigael’s front door. And still, it felt like she held the tiniest bit of flame taken from the one that burned bright in Abigael. 

For some reason, she imagined the flame dancing in her chest was bright blue and warm to the touch. 

When Abigael saw her that day, it only took her a second to notice the book. She quirked an eyebrow and a smirk made its way onto her lips, but her eyes looked almost pleased to have the book back. “Done already?”

Mel shrugged as she walked closer to the big, paper-and-parchment-covered desk in the open space that was Abigael’s living area. She placed the book there with all the gentleness she had, making sure she didn’t touch any of the things already there. 

Abigael leaned back in her chair. She seemed to study Mel for a moment before she asked: “Did you have a favourite part? Personally, I enjoyed the Liquid Hellfire potion, even though I’ve never brewed it myself. But I imagine you’d like the consequence spell.”

“Actually, I found the animal reflection potion quite interesting,” Mel found herself saying. 

A look of surprise crossed Abigael’s face. “And why is that?”

“The idea behind it, that you can get to know yourself and other people based on which animal shows itself as their reflection, that you can see the cracks and what’s beneath the surface even when you don’t have the power to meld minds, it’s… it’s fascinating,” Mel explained, watching as Abigael stood from her chair and went to one of the stacks of books she had in her apartment. She flipped through it before she pulled one of the books out. 

“It’s also scary,” the witch-demon remarked, flipping through the pages of the book. 

“Scary? Why would it be?” Mel questioned; head cocked slightly to the side. 

“I’m surprised you of all people don’t know. You and your Merry Men on Sherwood are so good at lying to yourselves, after all.”

Mel’s eyes narrowed into a glare. “What does that mean?”

A familiar, teasing smirk made its way onto Abigael’s face. “You lot think that good and evil are mutually exclusive. People are either good or evil and it’s easier to condemn than to redeem. And that is the biggest lie you desperately cling to for some reason. That potion, it shows the deepest parts of a person’s soul. You might be surprised at the darkness that resides in those you thought most pure.” 

Mel set her jaw stubbornly. “It might also show the light in those who hide their hearts behind darkness.”

Abigael didn’t respond. She only smiled to herself, wrote something down into the book and closed it with a snap. Then she walked over to Mel in that controlled, elegant way that made her hips sway and filled her movements with casual confidence. She offered the book to Mel with that irritating, knowing smirk firmly on her lips. “I think you’ll like this one, too. And you can take more than a few days to read it. Some of the things in here are… worth thinking about.”

Mel took the book, careful not to scratch the worn leather cover. She flipped it open, half expecting to find another heart-lifting message from Abigael’s mother, but the first page was empty. Closing the book, Mel nodded almost awkwardly. “Thanks.”

She left the building with the book safely tucked in her hand and the memory of the smirk on Abigael’s pink lips on the forefront of her mind. 

Despite Abigael insistence that she take her time with the book, Mel went to read it as soon as she got home. It was a book of spells and potions, similar to the one she’d had before, but this one was more like a diary or a personal log. The recipes were accompanied not only by the effects of the potions and spells but also by notes on their preparation, origins and recounting of how the author used the spell and what happened. 

It took her two days to read through half of the book, with the constant turmoil and them hiding from the Faction. But then, on the night when her dad left, Mel got to a page with a strip of paper placed on it. And there, in Abigael’s neat cursive, there was written: _I think you’ll find this especially interesting_. 

The spell itself was a difficult dream-walking spell that involved a potion and a long incantation in a language Mel couldn’t even pronounce. The author then told of their own experience, of how they walked through and analysed most of their recent dreams and how one recurring element, in their case a wolf, can have many different faces and meanings. 

Mel didn’t sleep at all that night. She spent her time re-reading the author’s dreams and thinking. 

When the unthinkable happened and the Charmed Ones allowed Abigael to stay at their house for some time, Mel was put in charge of helping her find her way. She took that opportunity to return the book, and to bring Abigael one of her own in an impulse she couldn’t quite understand but didn’t want to fight. 

She watched as Abigael looked around the attic that Harry graciously offered her, walking around and touching the things that piqued her interest. 

“I can still let you stay in my room,” Mel offered awkwardly and with more than just a little self-consciousness. 

“That’s unnecessary, I will only be here for a few days at most. I wouldn’t want to burden your witchy hearts with my demon presence.”

The instant response of ‘you’re a witch, too’ died on Mel’s tongue when she saw the faraway look on Abigael’s face. Perhaps this was not the time. Instead, Mel offered Abigael her book back. “I… I read it.”

The witch-demon’s eyes jumped to the book, then to Mel’s face, hazel eyes burning with interest. “How many times?”

Embarrassed at being called out like that, Mel only lowered her head and huffed a little. 

It seemed like that was all the reaction Abigael was waiting for because she let out a little chuckle as she walked over to Mel to take her book back. “Seeking knowledge is nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve read it about five times in the past year alone.”

“Some of the recipes were outrageous! Like the dread potion, it went against everything I know about potion-making. I never thought you could combine ingredients like that…”

“Why not? Have you never tried to experiment with potions?”

“Of course, I experimented! It’s just… magic is about intention as much as the ingredients and spells or power. And different ingredients are used with different intentions. There are ingredients you shouldn’t mix or those that negate each other, and you need to choose the correct ingredients according to what you intend the potion to do. Every potion is supposed to be made with a specific goal. And those were…”

“Malicious, yes. In a way,” Abigael supplied. 

“No, not—they were without a purpose. Existing only because of someone’s curiosity.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

Mel shrugged, helpless. “A potion made without a clear intent is volatile. The magic used when making it is unstable and that will affect the outcome. Curiosity is not an intention.”

“And yet, some might say curiosity is the reason why we are alive. To be curious and to discover as much of this world as possible.”

“But it’s not the only reason to live,” Mel argued. “It’s like the wolf! It was always present in every dream, but it had different functions. There is a reason for life, but it’s not just one, singular reason, it’s more complicated! Just like curiosity is not the sole reason to make a potion or try a spell. Magic and life, they both need direction!”

“Ah, so you did find my note.”

“Yes. It was… strange. To have so many sides to one thing, one person exposed like that… like you could just read them.”

“Careful,” Abigael warned. “Dream walking is similar to mind-melding in its complexity. It’s easy to lose yourself in someone’s mind, even if it’s your own. And it doesn’t offer the answers we might be searching for.”

“It shows you contradictory things,” Mel agreed, nodding along a little. “Like the wolf, it was always there but always different. It might not even have been the same wolf! The emotions and thoughts it represented might have been different each time!”

“Or perhaps it was always the same notion, only with a different response. Thus creating the multifaciality of the issue.”

“That’s why you wanted me to read it,” Mel thought out loud. “To show me this multifaciality. That, in reference to the animal reflection potion, means that many parts of a person’s soul could be revealed and understood in many different ways.”

Abigael hummed, but whether it was pensive or agreeing, Mel couldn’t tell. Then she walked over to the one bag she had taken up into the attic with her and rummaged through it until she pulled out a book in light-brown leather binding. She offered it to Mel before saying: “Here. It’s a book of spells and tricks. Nothing complicated, but… my mother used to say that after a difficult read or deep thought, it is best to let the mind rest with something simple.”

Mel reached for the book almost awkwardly with one hand, the other holding her own humble offering at her side. How could she rival spellbooks with philosophical essays? But it wasn’t about the spellbooks. It was about Abigael’s subtle, safe way of baring her mind and thoughts, at least some of them, for Mel to see. The least Mel could do was meet her in the middle.

“I—eh… I’ve got a book for you, too. If you’re interested, I mean,” Mel said in a sudden burst of courage, offering her book up for Abigael’s critical gaze. 

Abigael studied first Mel and then her book with attentive, hazel eyes. “Don’t tell me you want me to read the Bronte sisters. While influential, I find their stories utterly boring.”

“No, no, I—” Mel chuckled a little, “I don’t really like them, either. It’s A Room of One’s Own, actually. My second favourite non-fiction.”

“Virginia Woolf,” Abigael seemed intrigued if the glint in her eyes was anything to go by. “What makes you think I haven’t read it?”

“I—didn’t think about that…” Mel admitted, letting her hand fall back to her side and her gaze flicker to the floor. 

In a few seconds, Abigael stood in front of her, pulling the book out of her grasp with strong, yet gentle fingers. “It has been some time since I read it and I wouldn’t mind a refresher. Besides, who knows what secrets are hidden inside your… copy.”

By the smirk on her lips, it was clear that Abigael wasn’t only talking about the book. 

A silence fell over them, pregnant with tension and expectation. It felt electric, almost like something was supposed to happen. Like something was about to happen. 

A loud bang came from somewhere in the house, followed by the indistinct chatter of Mel’s sisters’ voices, but it was enough to jerk them both out of the moment. 

“I guess we should…” Mel took a few steps back, “…get to making that potion and…whatever else they might need.”

And so they did, with the memory of their understanding fresh in their minds, making them that much brasher. 

That night, after Abigael had gone and Mel had drunk a beer or two more than she perhaps should have, she lay in her bed, with the light-brown leather-bound book on the pillow next to her and she pondered how well the multifaciality of the issue suited Abigael. 

She fell asleep before she could come up with a satisfying enough conclusion.

It took them a week to meet again, this time on Abigael’s insistence. It was a week filled with Mel worrying, trying out new spells and going over the colourful sticky notes with Abigael’s cursive talking about how she used certain spells to play tricks on her mother and how she thought some of the spells were the most useless spells she’d ever seen. They created an alliance, albeit an uneasy one, based on the common goals. They all wanted Godric and the Faction out of the way. They debated it at length, Maggie even made a jab about Abigael staying over, something the witch-demon was quick to dismiss. But they agreed to help each other and keep each other in the loop, with the Charmed Ones studying up on how to defeat the Conqueror while Abigael would go out into the demon world and try to gather as much information as she could. 

After the strategy meeting was over, Mel decided to take refuge in the garden, too tired and too worried already. She sat down onto the stairs, huddled up in an oversized flannel, holding two books on her knees. 

The tell-tale clack-clack-clack of Abigael’s heels altered Mel of her presence before she even spoke up. 

Instead of a greeting, Abigael drawled: “Do you always scribble into your books?”

Mel let out a puff of air that wanted to be a chuckle before she looked up at the witch-demon, lifting the leather-bound book. “Do you always leave sticky notes in yours?”

Abigael chuckled, a short, breathy sound, and sat down only about a foot away from Mel. “You might consider writing a paper on that book. You have so many notes there I sometimes got lost reading your writing rather than Virginia’s.”

“I did try that, actually. I was a post-grad at Hilltowne. Women’s studies. I taught feminist literature,” Mel admitted, smiling at the bitter-sweet memory. “Then we got our powers. I tried to make it work, I… I enjoyed that work, that life. I might have even pushed for an extension for my thesis if it were only ordinary demon attacks that bothered us. But then Alistor and the whole mess with the Source… sorry.”

“Don’t apologise for ridding the world of that man. The only thing I regret about his death is that I didn’t play a part in it.”

“I kind of wish I wasn’t there. It was…” Mel trailed off, unable to finish the thought. 

“Did you consider getting back onto academy ground? Getting your PhD?”

“It’s… something I like to think about at night. How a life like that would look. But I…I’m too busy vanquishing demons and saving the world to be able to focus enough to write scholarly theses.”

“A woman must have money and a room of her own to write,” Abigael quoted. She then looked at Mel with the softest curiosity shining in her eyes and it made Mel’s throat squeeze just a little. “I noticed you scratched the word ‘fiction’ out in some parts.”

“You need to know what to write before you write, fiction or not. That goes for everything you want to do, really. You need to have time and a safe place to do that. With demons about and the end of the world approaching, it felt like I didn’t have my own room. A safe place for me to sit and think about what I wanted to write,” Mel said thoughtfully. They both knew she wasn’t only talking about writing. 

“A room of one’s own. That safety certainly sounds nice right about now,” Abigael remarked after a while. 

“Hey. Whatever happens, you’ll always have a safe place here. Maybe we could even clear out the basement so that you’d have a room of your own,” Mel grinned, prompting a quiet, short laugh from Abigael. 

Silence overtook them, comfortable and simple, almost warm against the chilly night air. They watched the sky alight with the fog and lights of Seattle, and Mel found herself wishing they could watch the start instead. She wondered, how would the Bronte sisters describe this moment, these feelings, these wishes and desires? How would Angela Carter describe them? Jane Austen? George Eliot? Would it be poetic? Verses that make their way into a person’s subconsciousness and stay there, rhymes that come to one’s lips when they hear a somewhat familiar melody? Would it be lengthy and for later generations boring, thoughts running away, words spilling over one another without punctuation or sense? Would literary scholars look at it fifty, hundred, two hundred years later and offer their own hypotheses for what it meant that Mel’s throat was clenching, that her heart fluttered, that her belly felt uneasy, that her palms were sweaty, and yet she was at peace, dreaming of the stars? 

Then her gaze fell to her hands, holding the brown, leather-bound book and she realised, it didn’t matter what the Bronte sisters would write about this moment, or Angela Carter, or Virginia Woolf, or any scholar who’d read about them and say one clear, straight-forward verdict. It didn’t matter because whatever they’d write, whatever they’d say, could never capture the entirety of that one moment. 

All that mattered was that the moment was there and she realised it while it was happening and not years later, in a room of her own. 

Abigael moved then, breaking the spell on them both. She placed another leather-bound book in Mel’s lap, this time black, but just as soft from use. “Something for the Potion Princess to enjoy. I already marked the most interesting ones.”

Instead of a thank you, Mel offered her own book. “It’s not my favourite, but I’m pretty sure you’ve read The Feminine Mystique already and… actually, you made me reread these, so…”

Abigael hummed, taking the book into her long, soft fingers. “I never would have pegged you for a Poe fan.”

Mel smiled at that a little. “To be honest, I was torn between this and Frankenstein, but I thought that would be too on the nose.”

“You wanted to compare me to Frankenstein’s monster,” Abigael deadpanned.

“Everyone knows Victor Frankenstein was the real monster. Abandoning Boo like that when he needed him the most…”

Abigael chuckled. “Boo?”

“What? It was better than calling him a monster! And I was obsessed with David Bowie back when I read it for the first time.”

Still chuckling, Abigael shook her head. “Do you always do that?”

“What?”

“Make others more human.”

“Abi—”

“I’m looking forward to reading your notes on Poe.”

And with that, and a small, soft, almost sad or perhaps wistful smile, Abigael left Mel alone on the stairs in the patio, only with her thoughts and the orange-yellow fog in the sky to keep her company. And Mel wondered once again, how would those authors of the past, those so revered and admired, describe the clenching in her chest and ice around her heart? 

It took her three days to finally get to reading the book Abigael lent her. Much like in the previous one, there were sticky notes with Abigael’s neat, thin cursive proposing questions or giving recommendations for the brewing or use. There was even one with a note that said ‘ _This one doesn’t work, I’ve tried it a dozen times. Do you think it might be the figs?’_

That made Mel laugh. Before she knew it, she was holding a pen and writing onto the yellow paper, right under Abigael’s note. _‘It might just be a recipe for a strange fig jam.’_

She flipped through the book, laughing at some of Abigael’s little notes, jotting down the potions she wanted to make, pondering what Abigael wrote about some of the potions.

Then she found something that made her stop. It was a seep draught potion and under the instructions, there was another sticky note with Abigael’s neat cursive that said: _‘To make the potion stronger, dried and crushed white baneberry could substitute borage if combined with honey to mask the taste and wheatgrass as a stabiliser.’_

Without thinking about it, Mel grabbed her phone and typed out a text. 

_‘You do know that lavender and wheatgrass negate each other and destabilise the whole potion,  
and since there’s no healing plant, the white baneberry is too poisonous, right? Depending on  
measurements, you’d either have a Molotov cocktail or a deadly poison.’ _

She hit send before she could even think about it. She spent the next hour trying and failing not to look at her phone in anticipation, but when nothing happened, she took it as a sign that her text went ignored and she forced herself to go to sleep just to get herself to stop thinking about the hollow disappointment in her stomach. 

The next morning, she found a text from Abigael on her phone. 

_‘I actually didn’t realise that. But using flax seeds as a stabiliser  
instead of wheatgrass might work.’ _

_‘You can’t combine an energising plant, like wheatgrass or flax seeds and a sedative plant,  
like lavender. They cancel each other out and the most active compound would then be  
the poison. Borage is a good enough ingredient. White baneberries aren’t necessary.’ _

_‘Perhaps we could test that theory someday. Either way, you  
found two new potions today. You truly are a Potion Princess.’ _

Mel was just about to respond with something snarky when another text came in. 

_‘You should consider writing essays for a living. Or at least  
putting your thoughts on a separate piece of paper and not the  
margins of your books.’ _

_‘I did write an essay or five about Poe, that’s why there are so many notes.’_

_‘I would very much like to read them sometime. You offer the  
most passionate of arguments. I especially enjoyed thethree-page  
analysis of The Imp of the Perverse. The proposal that everybody  
has something bad in them is interesting, especially coming  
from you.’ _

_‘Why, because I’m a goody-to-shoes?’_

_‘In part.’_

_‘I only wrote that last week.’_ Mel admitted, biting her lip. She watched her phone like a hawk, squeezing it in her palms almost to the point where she was afraid she’d crack it.

_‘Are you admitting that you took into consideration  
my theory of multifaciality of the issue?’ _

_‘It would be stupid of me not to; it applies to you perfectly.’_

It took Abigael a few moments to respond, and when she did, she ignored Mel’s remark completely. 

_‘You propose the idea that everybody consciously chooses  
whether to follow the Imp of the Perverse or not. That means  
that you constantly choose to be a good person. That blood  
doesn’t play a role.’ _

_‘It doesn’t. Good and evil are choices that we make, consciously or not.’_

_‘Some geneticists would argue that people can inherit the genes  
for crime, lack of emotional intelligence, even madness.’ _

_‘Everybody can be good and bad, those are the genes that we have, so to speak. But it’s our choices, not what we’re capable of, that defines us.’_

_‘And yet, you propose that to truly be good, we must find a suitable  
outlet for the evil in us.’ _

_‘I think what Poe called the Perverse is not our capacity for evil but rather our emotions  
and passions that cloud our judgement. We, as social beings who are responsible for the  
prosperity of our society, need to vent those passions in a sane and safe way so that our  
judgement is not impaired by them when we need it.’_

_‘That’s some deep thoughts for six in the morning.’_

Mel grinned at the message, but before she could respond, another one arrived. 

_‘I wonder, how do you vent your passions when you  
have so many of them?’ _

It took a moment for Mel to realise that the last text was Abigael’s attempt at flirting, and then another moment to realise that their conversation, vaguely similar to the ones they had before, was probably hitting too close to home for Abigael. 

She could push the issue, or she could flirt back and let Abigael steer the conversation in a direction she felt comfortable with. But the decision was made for her when Harry’s panicked voice rang through the house, yelling about some sort of a demon on a rampage. 

_‘Sorry, I have to go. Demon trouble. Talk to you later?’_

When she checked her phone right before leaving to deal with the emergency, she found no new messages. 

They continued like that for two months. They’d meet for a few moments, exchange books, talk a little about what interested them, then they’d go their separate ways. They often texted when reading. Sometimes, Mel would text to point out an error in a potion or recount her own experience with a spell, other times Abigael would text her about how she agreed or disagreed with either Mel’s notes or the author. They slowly went from spellbooks and literary classics to lesser-known books, stories they enjoyed for the sake of enjoyment and talked about those. Abigael offered her copies of Her Body And Other Parties, Infinite Jest, Mademoiselle Boleyn and Anne Bonny the Infamous Female Pirate; Mel lent her A Discovery of Witches, Poison Ivy comic and even one or two of her guilty pleasure lesbian romance novels that Abigael only chuckled at a little but still analysed with the same grace and attention as she did other books.

They’d just exchanged books a day ago, Abigael’s satirical but deep My Favourite Girlfriend Was a French Bulldog versus Mel’s Silmarillion with the songs of Beren and Lúthien marked as the main focus, and Mel was already half-way through the book. 

It was dark out, just before midnight, but she couldn’t sleep. She wanted to know what happens in the story, but more importantly, she wanted to read Abigael’s notes on it. It was clear that Abigael had only read it recently, the remarks and quips, while still sarcastic and funny, lacked the usual bite and aloofness. They seemed more personal, like Abigael was talking to Mel instead of noting something down for herself. 

And Mel felt compelled to reply. To have these little conversations about different topics in the stolen moments of calmness at night or in the evening while they read. To feel closer to Abigael, even more than reading her books could make her, without her risking their slowly-strengthening friendship just for some pesky, growing feelings. 

Feelings. Such strange things they were. Eternal yet fleeting. Simple and complicated. Easy and difficult. 

Before Mel had the time to ponder feeling further or even try to jot down the ideas to return to them later, her phone rang. Abigael’s name flashed on the screen, filling Mel with worry until she picked up and was met with soft piano music coming from Abigael’s end.

“I thought you said it was a love story,” Abigael said instead of greeting, her voice calm and smooth like honey and dark chocolate. 

“It is,” Mel replied when she realised what Abigael was talking about.

“But they die.”

“Yeah. That’s the happiest thing that could happen to them.”

There was silence for a moment, only the soft music making its way through the speaker let Mel know Abigael didn’t hang up. “How is death happy? Aren’t all the great stories about eternal love?”

Mel opened her mouth, but she couldn’t find the right words. She remembered the story of Beren and Lúthien in the way someone might remember Romeo and Juliette or Elizabeth and Mr Darcy. She understood it in her own way. But to explain it to Abigael, for whom love was only something hidden in stories, seemed like an impossible task. 

“In every story,” Abigael voiced after moments of silence, “the love is eternal. It changed the status quo; it leaves a legacy. But they just… die.”

“They left a legacy. A son. Joining of the elves and men against Morgoth. Lúthien’s songs are still sung in Valinor. It was happy because they died together, after living their lives out together. Neither had to live without the other.”

“But she was an elf. Immortal,” Abigael protested. “Powerful! And she gave her power up for a death in the hands of a man.”

“She loved him,” Mel said simply. “She loved him so much she faced Morgoth at his side. She loved him so much she moved the Valar themselves to bring him back to life.”

“But why?” came Abigael’s voice filled with wonder or puzzlement, Mel couldn’t tell. “What had he done for her, what could he offer her, to earn such loyalty?”

“It wasn’t just loyalty. It was affection and happiness and passion and protectiveness and grief and determination. It was love. And love is not earned with gifts or through action. It’s given, slowly, over time. It’s…” Mel paused, thinking. She thought of her loves past, how each of them was different, each difficult in a different way. She thought of her love present and how that, too, was different. “Love is slow. Patient. And messy and difficult. But it’s also… a light that spreads in you, the knowledge that you always have someone there for you. The knowledge you’d do anything for them because… because you love them. Because they are more important than you or your powers or your immortality. That’s why Lúthien went with Beren. That’s why she gave up her immortality and magic. Being without those, she could manage, but she couldn’t imagine a world where she’d be without him. Her powers, her eternal life, was less important than the time she could spend with him.”

It was quiet again, still. Mel wasn’t sure what to do or say. 

“Would you give up your powers for someone like that?” Abigael asked finally. 

“I—” Mel tried to respond, but she couldn’t. she didn’t know how to. Would she be willing to give up her powers for a person? To give such an essential part of herself away? “I think that… to save my sisters, or—I think I would.”

Abigael only hummed. 

Mel licked her lips before asking: “Would you?”

Another silence overtook them, heavy and thick like pitch. Then the line went dead. 

Mel stared at her phone for a moment. Of course, Abigael would run, she was selfish and cold and she didn’t want to talk about giving her powers up, which, Mel knew, she wouldn’t do. She valued power more than anything and while she was slowly warming up to a different, more witchy mindset, there were things about Abigael that would never change. 

Something shifted in the room, and then, in a cloud of black smoke, Abigael appeared, clad only in a short, black bathrobe that barely reached mid-thigh, holding The Silmarillion in her hands. 

“I don’t think I could ever give up my magic,” she proclaimed, voice strained, as if close to breaking, and eyes deep, pensive, but alight with greenish-hazel flame. “But my immortality… it’s empowering to know that you are immortal, that you won’t age and die. You have time for everything. And as long as you don’t get attached, it’s fine because you have nothing to mourn even when the world around you changes and people perish. I think the elves thought of that, too. As long as you’re with your kin, as immortal as you are, it’s fine. I… I think I understand why she gave her immortality for her attachment. I wouldn’t want to—to live without…” As Abigael trailed off, her eyes looked to Mel’s, wide and vulnerable, burning greenish-hazel with so many things she didn’t have the words to name. 

Smiling the smallest, happy smile, Mel nodded. She understood. Just like she understood Lúthien’s loyalty and Beren’s determination, just like she understood Romeo’s foolishness and Juliette’s dedication, just like she understood Elizabeth’s hesitance and Mr Darcy’s pride. Deeply and intimately. 

Mel shifted on her bed, settling on one side before she patted the spot next to her. “Sit down. Read with me.”

Abigael looked confused at first, bewildered, with her eyes wide and a perplexed expression on her face. Then she looked down at the book in her hands, as if she thought about it very hard. 

And then she sat down on Mel’s bed, opened her book and went back to reading one of the very few books Mel hadn’t written anything into. 

Mel watched her for a moment. She’d seen Abigael’s face countless times, but never like this. Calm and content, with the smallest crease between her eyebrows, whether from concentration or something else, Mel didn’t know. 

They didn’t speak at all. They just sat there and read, together, hesitant and proud, foolish and dedicated, loyal and determined. And in all that, they were loving, too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that's all from me! I hope you liked the story! Let me know what you think in the comments below or come talk to me on my [Tumblr](https://justalittlewritingnerd.tumblr.com/)! As a result of recent development, you can also find me on Twitter under CathrineCBlack, as well as Instagram under cat.c.black. They're both empty for now, but I might find the courage to actually post something later on! So don't be shy and give me a yell if you want to talk about AbiMel, literature, TV or basically anything! 
> 
> Just a side note, the debates about potions and ingredients were completely made-up. However, the discussions about A Room of One's Own and The Imp of The Perverse were all taken from the thoughts I had when reading those works. If there's anything you didn't understand or would like me to clarify, or if you just want to chat, don't hesitate to find me on Tumblr, Twitter or Instagram! 
> 
> I hate you all, hoomans!


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